Shattered Dreams (Shattered #2)

1. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Pale blue eyes roam over my face before halting to stare deeply into my eyes. The smile on Mark’s rugged face melts away as he lifts one hand to caress my cheek.

“Damn, you’re beautiful, Baby Girl,” he says, his voice husky. One large hand slides behind my neck and tilts my face up to his before he leans in, gently brushing his lips over mine.

“Relax,” he whispers against them, and I stretch up on tiptoe to meet him halfway.

I’m startled when he suddenly scoops me up and sets me on the counter, but when I look into his eyes, I forget everything else. He smiles slowly as he dips his head. “That’s better,” he says as his lips close over mine.

I’m still nervous, though. I feel him smile as he once again mutters against my mouth. “Stop overthinking this. Just let go and feel.”

I take the leap and do exactly that.

Mark deepens the kiss, one hand slipping into my hair as his lips touch and tease and taste. When he strokes his tongue across the seam of my lips, I’m all in. Our kisses become hotter. Wetter. Deeper. Excitement spirals through me, and I want more. My fingers somehow end up twisting in his hair, my breasts pressing into the muscled planes of his chest.

He pulls back to kiss his way down my neck before sucking and nibbling his way back up. His perennial five o’clock shadow scrapes over my skin, making me shiver, and I can’t help sighing as my head drops back to give him better access.

I need more.

I drag his face back to mine, becoming the aggressor as my lips seek his. A fiery heat engulfs us as our kisses grow more intense. His hand drops from my neck to the curve of my hip, clutching it tightly, pulling me forward. My core grazes his hardness, and heat floods through me.

I tug his hand from my hip and settle it firmly on my right breast. When he squeezes my nipple, my body clenches tightly in response. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, arching my hips against him, and my body aches for more. My whimpers of excitement mingle with his deep groan as I grind against him again.

Without warning, he tears his lips away from mine. “Damn, Baby Girl,” he gasps, his voice rough. His chest heaves like he’s just run a marathon. “You’re not broken. Not by a long shot.”

Oh. My. God.

What have I done?

Test kiss, my ass. I’m an idiot for agreeing to this.

If I’d taken more than thirty seconds to consider Mark’s suggestion, either common sense or my raging insecurities would have kicked in and made me rethink things. I’d never have made such an impulsive decision, possibly ruining the most important relationship of my life.

I made out with my best friend.

And it was hot. Not just hot – electric. Smoldering. Panty-melting. The hottest, most passionate kiss I’ve ever experienced.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was just supposed to be a test, one I passed with flying colors.

Actually, failed is probably the more accurate way to view things, because even though it sent my lady bits into overdrive, it wasn’t worth screwing up the relationship Mark and I have. He’s my best friend, and that’s worth more than all the passion in the world.

That panty-melting kiss was last night. Now I’m in my shower, my brain scrambling for a way to fix things while jasmine-scented steam cocoons me in a thick fog. I brace my arms against the spotless white tiles, dropping my head beneath the hot water.

Maybe if I drown myself in here, I won’t have to face my screw-up.

What the hell?

It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

Mark and I have been best friends since we were kids. Our parents were best friends, too. His mom died from breast cancer when he was thirteen, and his dad committed suicide a couple of years later, too grief-stricken to go on. My parents immediately brought Mark into our home. When they died in a car accident just after my freshman year of college, he and I were alone, a pair of technically-but-not-really-adults, two kids with no one but each other. We floundered a bit before joining the Army. Mark chose infantry and rose quickly through the ranks. I became a medic and loved it, but I missed Mark. I bounced from place to place around the Middle East before I finally scored my transfer to his unit, a platoon embedded deep in a hotspot in Afghanistan.

That’s where I met Lila and Tucker. Lila was a fellow medic, and Tucker was Mark’s second-in-command and later, Lila’s fiance. The four of us became inseparable over our years together, forming our own kinda-sorta-family unit.

Then everything went to hell.

Lila and I were kidnapped by insurgents and imprisoned for eleven days before being rescued. We endured barbaric torture that ended our military careers, and I was left wounded and scarred, traumatized with crippling PTSD.

I functioned on emotional autopilot for years until Mark came to live with me a few months ago. An IED exploded while he was on a mission, leaving him severely injured and missing his right lower leg. After three months in Brooke Army Medical Center, he came here to finish recovering. Lila and I are massage therapists now. We co-own a wellness clinic offering massage, hydrotherapy, and physical therapy for injured veterans. Mark gets PT five days a week, and Tucker, who moved back here and married Lila, spends three afternoons a week helping Mark rebuild his strength.

I brought Mark home with me to heal, but the truth is, he’s helped me as much as I’ve helped him. He’s my sounding board, my compass, and my anchor.

After my kidnapping, my persistent male-induced panic attacks convinced me I was too defeated, both physically and emotionally, to feel sexual desire. It seemed obvious I was meant to be alone. Relationships require extensive effort to force myself to be emotionally and sexually vulnerable, and I’d long since run out of energy and motivation. I’d decided the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze, particularly given most of the doorknobs I’ve been out with.

That brings me to last night, when Mark urged me not to give up. I said I didn’t know any men I trusted enough to have dinner with, let alone attempt anything physical to confirm my suspicion that I was irreversibly sexually paralyzed. He suggested a test, a kiss between the two of us. I trust Mark implicitly. He’d die before he’d take advantage of me, and we both know it. The idea was to let me safely explore whether I was sexually damaged beyond repair.

Well, I’m not.

Definitely not.

My face grows hot as memories scroll through my mind again. Pale blue eyes holding mine. Rough stubble grazing my neck. Soft lips becoming firm, insistent. Things long forgotten stirring to life. Damp heat. Hardness. Fiery passion.

Jesus, I’m getting turned on again just thinking about it.

No.

I shove my face under the water again to derail my train of thought.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

It was supposed to be a test, a way to verify my conviction I was too damaged to become aroused. Obviously, I was wrong, and I’ve screwed everything up.

Mark and I can barely look at each other. We’ve always curled up on the sofa together to watch movies, but last night we avoided all contact. When I set up for his leg massage to stave off his phantom pains, he pushed my hands away, despite the risk of substantial pain later.

Yeah. Thanks to my overly enthusiastic response last night, I’m not allowed to touch him.

Ever since he moved here, we’ve spent each night side by side as a trade-off. I help prevent or ease his phantom pain, and he keeps watch so I feel safe enough to sleep. But I didn't sleep last night. I couldn’t. I was too busy vacillating between remembering every delicious detail of our kiss and worrying I’ve ruined the most important relationship in my life.

I’m not willing to give up what he and I have.

I just have no idea how to set things right.

I’m cross-legged on my bed, my left leg folded beneath me and what remains of my amputated right leg hanging off the edge of the plush mattress. I’m alone. Charlie’s already left for work, scurrying out the side door and across the breezeway to her clinic next door. Meanwhile, I’m taking out my frustrations by pounding a squashy gray pillow and cursing enough to make any sailor blush.

I’m a goddamned idiot.

I’ve fucked everything up with Charlie. I made a spontaneous suggestion without considering the long-term ramifications, and it’s strained things between us.

Our relationship is the most important one in my life. Without Charlie, I have nothing.

Charlie’s deeply scarred by a past that’s entirely my fault. Four years ago, I sent two teams on a medical mission that turned out to be an ambush. Insurgents killed six of my men before taking Charlie and Lila prisoner. The bastards were savages. Charlie endured unspeakable horrors – beatings, branding, mutilation, and rapes, all because I made the wrong call. It took eleven days for me to locate and rescue them, eleven days and nights of hell that left her with unspeakably deep physical and emotional scars.

When she brought me here to recuperate, I had no clue she struggled with night terrors. Unbeknownst to me, she spent every night on a bench in her hall where she could monitor every entrance, dozing in brief spurts until her nightmares hit. She’d awaken in full combat mode, gun drawn, often firing in the direction she believed her attacker was coming from. Things got so dire, Tucker and Lila installed a remote camera system to alert them so they could help reorient her to her surroundings and calm her.

They never said a word to me.

Not one fucking word.

I get it… sort of. I was half a world away, and a split second of distraction worrying about a problem I couldn’t fix could literally have meant life or death for me and my men. I understand their logic, and I’d probably have done the same in their position, but it still upsets me. My best friend needed me, and I had no idea. I’m the one responsible for her night terrors. I’m the one who fucked up and sent my team into a trap.

What’s more devastating is that she wasn’t having regular bad dreams, like falling off a cliff or standing in front of a crowd in your underwear. During her night terrors, Charlie relived what those fuckers did to her. Everything they did to her, as though it was happening in real time, every goddamn night.

I discovered this the hard way my first night here. Charlie cried out, trapped in one of her night terrors, reliving a rape by her captors. She was still disoriented when I hurried to check on her. If I hadn’t struggled with my bedroom door, she’d have shot me in the head. Instead, she planted two bullets in the wall exactly where my head would have been.

And she’s a certified expert marksman.

That horrible night led to a mutually beneficial arrangement. She’d stay with me at night to manage my phantom pains. In return, she’d hand over her gun and trust me to keep her safe so she could sleep without fear.

When her gun isn’t with me, it’s in a soft belly-band holster around her waist. She doesn’t feel safe without it. Night terrors aren’t her only struggle. Unexpected male touch terrifies her. Thanks to those bastards, her mind reflexively equates male touch with pain. A mere hug from someone she doesn’t trust can instigate a full-blown panic attack, complete with gun drawn. She’s only recently begun to initiate affectionate touch with the two males she trusts besides me – Tucker and her friend, Tom. She’s working hard to overcome her fears. She was doing really well, even dating one guy for a few weeks until he revealed his true colors.

Trust is unbelievably hard for her, and not just with men. Charlie doesn’t trust her own judgment now. I think that’s why sexual contact has been so challenging, because she can’t relax enough to just feel. She’d convinced herself she was too broken to feel desire. We’d talked about it a couple of months ago, before she started seeing Blake. I’d hoped the issue would resolve itself, but it didn’t, and when things didn’t work out, she gave up. She’d decided she was sexually damaged beyond repair, unwilling to risk dating to confirm or disprove her suspicions.

Enter me and my fuck-up of epic proportions.

A thought flitted through my mind while we were discussing her certainty that she could neither feel desire nor arouse a partner. She and I could test her theory – nothing more than kissing, but lasting long enough for her to relax and let go. Charlie trusts me, so the hurdle of finding someone she could be comfortable with was a non-issue. I can read her better than anyone, and I’d stop at her first hint of anxiety or dissociation.

I didn’t really think she’d agree, so I never considered the possibility of consequences. I assumed on the off-chance she did consent, we’d make out for a couple of minutes and she’d realize she could enjoy herself with someone once she let go of her fears.

She startled me by accepting my offer.

She stunned me with her passionate response.

My profound, fiery reaction rocked me to my core.

What the hell?

Where did that come from?

Charlie and I have been best friends for nearly twenty-five years. We’ve been there for each other through everything, from skinned knees to war wounds, bad haircuts to hangovers, losing football games to losing family members. Until last night, we’ve never once crossed that unspoken boundary, although at sixteen, I’d have jumped at the chance.

Sixteen-year-old me was clapping and cheering last night, rooting for more.

Thirty-five-year-old me is mature enough to understand that while sex with Charlie would be mind-blowing, I can’t risk what we have. She’s my best friend. I can’t lose her.

I let my mind drift back to her fervent response, and my lips curl in a slow grin.

Yeah… she’s definitely not broken.

I wake long before my alarm, the only light coming from the bedside lamp on the other side of the bed. I can tell as I shift positions that I’m alone because there’s no weight on the mattress behind me. Still, I snake a hand backwards, hoping I’m wrong but finding only cold sheets. I roll over, scanning the room. Pale blue eyes watch me. Mark is perched on his chaise again. His jaw tightens, and his watchful gaze turns to a glare when our eyes meet.

He’s definitely not happy to see me.

He used to be.

He always used to be.

But that was before I ruined everything.

Tears spring to my eyes. I leap from the bed, tripping on the edge of the comforter. He automatically reaches to catch me, but I right myself and pick up my gun from the bedside table.

“I’ll get out of your way,” I mumble, rushing for the door. After I close it, I hear a crash. I hesitate, wondering if he’s fallen, but based on the loud string of curses that follows, he’s not injured. His voice isn't coming from floor level. He’s just angry.

At me.

God, this week has sucked.

Monday night was the hottest kiss of my life. It was followed by Mark’s abrupt withdrawal. He rarely speaks, and if he does, he’s crabby. He won’t let me massage him at all, not before bed to prevent his phantom pains and not when he’s at the clinic, either.

He doesn’t want me to touch him.

Maybe I misread things.

Maybe the passion from our kiss was all one-sided.

What if Mark was just trying to prove I still had the capacity to respond?

Oh, God.

It was a pity kiss.

And I got carried away.

After that realization sinks in, I can barely make eye contact with him.

At least I’ve been able to limit my time alone with him. Three evenings a week, Tom and Tucker come over and work out with Mark while Lila and I make dinner, and I’ve convinced them to watch a movie or hang out afterwards. The other evenings, I’ve avoided going home. One night I texted Mark that pizza was being delivered so I could go shopping. I’d rather have bamboo shoved under my nails than shop for clothes, so I played solitaire on my phone and ate a burger in my car. Last night, I hung out with Tom and Maya and sent Chinese food to Mark.

I’ve even figured out how to circumvent the awkwardness of bedtime. I shower and wait upstairs until I hear him in his own shower, then sneak into his room. I leave my gun on his bedside table and climb into bed, feigning sleep when I hear him moving around the bathroom. He climbs in bed next to me, careful not to make contact. When I sleep, I dream of him in ways I wish I didn’t. When I wake, he’s never beside me. He’s always across the room on his chaise, looking grumpy.

This morning was no different, except for the cursing as soon as I was out of sight.

I’ve ruined everything.

I shower and dress, escaping to the safety of our clinic. The lights are already on when I get there, though it isn’t even seven yet. “Hello?”

“In here,” calls Lila.

I follow her voice down the hall to my office, an open room with soft sage walls, cherry wood furniture covered in sprawling green plants, and fluttery white sheers over floor to ceiling windows. A fountain on the credenza provides the soothing sound of trickling water. Lila’s sorting documents into large piles to fax to physicians’ offices and insurance companies. The endless paperwork is my least favorite part of this job. Lila was shocked by the ridiculous amount of redundancy I deal with when she covered for me while I was in Texas with Mark. I’ve always handled the paperwork because I know she abhors it. Since learning firsthand how much is involved, she’s made it a point to help, a task I’m more than happy to share.

“You’re here early,” Lila greets me. She’s cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by precariously high stacks of paper. “I’ve finally gotten these sorted. We just need to fax those.” She points to a pile to her right.

“Thanks. I’ll send them and work on invoices today. Tara’s covering my clients, so I should have time.” I examine her more closely. Her violet eyes are red-rimmed with dark circles beneath them, and her usually perfect blond curls are twisted up in a clip instead of tumbling down her back. I pick my way across the room, stepping between piles to sit down facing her. “Want to talk about it?”

Her eyes flash to mine in surprise before she sighs. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to me.”

She bites her lip, staring at the floor. “I started my period last night.”

Oh.

Lila went off the pill in January to pursue her desire to have a baby, and it hasn’t happened as quickly as she’d expected it to. She tracks her ovulation days and peak conception windows obsessively, timing her intercourse with Tucker to increase the odds. Every unsuccessful month seems to take a little more out of her.

“I’m sorry, Lila.” I reach out and squeeze her delicate fingers. “What can I do?”

She shrugs lightly. “Nothing. This is on me, I guess.”

I don’t address the elephant in the room: her fear that the violent sexual assaults by the bastards who kidnapped us caused enough damage to render her infertile.

Like they did me.

But I don’t go there, because neither of us is strong enough for that discussion today. Instead, I shake my head. “This isn’t on you. Stress makes it harder to conceive, and this has been a hell of a year. I abandoned you when Mark got injured. You managed the clinic, a gazillion goats and horses, your house, your husband, the renovations to my house – hell, I’m exhausted just listing it all. That’s a ton of stress.” I pause, gazing at her sad eyes. “I know it’s easier said than done, but be patient with yourself. You need to recover, too.”

She sighs. “Maybe. And you didn’t abandon me. Mark was hurt. You did what Tucker and I couldn’t do. You were exactly where all of us needed you to be.” Then she purses her lips. “Why are you here so early?”

No way in hell can I give Lila one more thing to worry about.

I sidestep her question, tossing my hair and reaching for a piece of paper from one of the piles, pretending to read it. “You know me. Once I’m up, I can’t go back to sleep, so I came in to get a head start on this.” I gesture around at the stacks of paper. “I had no idea I’d find you here, too.” I smile. “I’m glad I did. Makes my day a lot easier.”

She eyes me suspiciously, and I’m sure she’s going to call bullshit, so I rush to speak before she can. “Why don’t you call Tucker and meet him for breakfast? I’ll take your morning clients.”

“Adam has the flu,” she answers, referring to one of our older veterans, a right-sided above-the-knee amputee. “He texted me last night, and Jim has a doctor’s appointment this morning, so I don’t have a client until noon.” She hesitates, and I can tell she’s considering my offer. “Maybe I will.”

I nod. “Tucker’s probably upset, too. Breakfast together will do you both good.”

She scoops up her phone. “I hope he doesn’t have an early session.”

When she’s gone, I pull up my knees and tuck my face into them, glad I’m alone so I don’t have to pretend everything’s fine. I’d give anything to talk to someone about this mess I’ve gotten myself into.

The problem is, Mark’s my go-to person for advice, and he’s clearly not an option. Lila’s my second, but she’s got more than enough to deal with. I could try Tucker, but he’d probably think my kissing Mark was a fantastic idea instead of the giant fuck-up it’s become. And Tom is taking the day off, flying to New York with Maya so she can spend the weekend with her mom.

I’m on my own to sort this shit out.

I’m on the back deck, heaving chunks of charred wood from the firepit at the distant trees lining the lower border of Charlie’s property. I’m desperate to expend some energy. Things are getting out of hand.

The night we kissed, Charlie started massaging my leg as usual, but the feel of her hands gliding over me and her scent as she leaned into her strokes made my cock harden. I hurriedly stopped her, not wanting her to notice my erection. The hurt in her eyes almost made me confess, but I held back, not wanting to freak her out.

She laid beside me all night, stiff as a board, not sleeping a wink. Neither did I, not until long after she left for work the next morning. When I eventually slept, I dreamed of her. I awoke irritable, wanting what I can never have.

Charlie.

In my bed.

Crying out my name as she comes with my cock deep inside her.

To my dismay, things aren’t getting any easier as the nights progress.

The second night, Charlie does fall asleep. She claims my wrist in her sleep and tugs my arm across her body, anchoring my hand so that her full breast nestles perfectly into it. My mouth goes dry and my body tightens instantly.

The third night, she rolls onto me, her head on my shoulder, both breasts pressing into my chest and her leg slung over my groin. I ease out from beneath her, but she immediately shifts back, clinging to me like ivy to a wall as my cock hardens against her thigh.

Last night, she once again pulled my arm around her so her breast ended up in my hand. Our bodies shifted when she rolled, and her luscious backside slid into full contact with my groin. I grabbed a pillow and pushed it between us to hide my immediate erection.

My only respite comes when she’s asleep enough for me to escape to the safety of the chaise, out of her reach. Even then, I’m haunted by the images my mind replays. Our steamy kiss. My hand buried in her silky brown hair. Her lush curves. My stroking hands. Wetness and heat. Her green eyes, dilated with desire. And when she moans or makes soft noises in her sleep, it’s almost more than I can take.

I don’t let her massage me at all, not at home or at the clinic. I can’t. I’m too afraid she’ll see how my body reacts to her now. Hurt flashes in her eyes, but she says nothing as I traipse past her down the hall every day with Lila or Tara.

In the daytime, Charlie avoids time alone with me like the plague. As soon as her eyes open, she races to her shower before spending even longer hours than usual at her clinic. She’s been at work before daylight every day since our kiss. After work, she keeps a cushion of people around so we’re never alone. On workout days with Tom, Tucker, and Lila, she acts as though nothing’s wrong, and strangely enough, none of them have noticed she and I aren’t speaking or making eye contact.

When the guys aren’t here to work out, she evades me. One day, she texted she wouldn’t be home because she was going shopping. Did she seriously think I’d believe that? She’d rather face a firing squad than go shopping. And all these visits with Tom and Maya? Okay, fine, she does that at least once a week, but she’s doing it more frequently now, and it’s not like I don’t know why. She’s even having dinner delivered to me when she’s not here. It’s like a giant neon sign flashing, “Don’t waste your time waiting for me, because I won’t be joining you”.

We’ve got to work this out.

I just don’t know how.

Every time I try to talk to her, my words come out like growls. I can’t stop it, because it pisses me off that she’s pulling away. It’s become a vicious cycle. The more I snap, the more she withdraws, and the more she withdraws, the more irascible I become. Her injured expression has me wound so tightly that as soon as she leaves the room, I start cursing and throwing things.

I want Charlie to fight for me. For us, for what we have together. She fights every other problem head on – why not this one? The only time she reacts honestly is when she’s asleep, wrapping her body around mine. Her authentic response proves she wants more between us, even if she won’t admit it out loud. The way she reaches for me in her sleep is a problem, though, because it makes me want more. Much more. I allow myself to savor it briefly, but I can’t stay that close to her. It’s too torturous. As soon as I’m certain I won’t wake her, I extricate myself. I can’t act on my feelings, so I flee to the safety of the chaise.

I’m not fleeing the same way she is, though.

Definitely not.

She’s giving up. I’m just not giving in. There’s a difference.

Yeah, right.

Maybe Charlie isn’t the only one avoiding the truth.